


We'll go together in flight

by OffTheRecord



Category: Papillon (1973), Papillon (2018)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Smut, French, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OK i don't speak french at all so im so sorry if i butcher everything, Penal Colony, Slow Burn, and i lowkey want to make this chaptered, but i have plans!!, french guiana, i guess, i suck at writing fics, im going to hate my life!!, in the future, there are not enough fics with these two, these men make my heart hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffTheRecord/pseuds/OffTheRecord
Summary: “What does that mean?” Dega asks, looking over at Papi who currently has his eyes closed. He peers over at the other man, his eyes half lidded as the back of his head rests against the wall behind him. Dega is pointing at his bare chest, signaling to the butterfly tattoo inked onto his skin. Papi looks down, eyeing the poorly done artwork. The lines are crooked and some of them are thicker than the others, but he doesn’t regret it.





	1. You need me (rest easy)

**Author's Note:**

> So I started a thing! I'm not sure how many chapters it's going to be but I hope you guys enjoy my shit fic! I'm planning on the whole slow burn kind of thing but I have no idea how to do it, so bear with me. Any comments/feedback is greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Also, I don't know a single word in French, so I do apologize if some of it is inaccurate.

Imagine a sun so bright that your entire world is illuminated with a yellow glow; every grey rock, every leaf on every tree, every strand of grass swaying lazily in the afternoon breeze, all tinted with the same color as the burning giant floating billions of miles away. Everything is so bright, every color is so vivid. Perhaps you’d find solace underneath the burning rays. Perhaps you’d feel blessed to be alive in that moment. The moment where everything is warm and wrapped in a single blanket of peace.

Papillon doesn’t understand. He can’t. For him, the sun burns. It chars into his skin, leaving it red and irritated and itchy. He never understood people’s yearning for warmth. His home in Paris was enough for him that he never wanted to leave in the first place. And now, at the edge of God forsaken South America, he finds himself craving the comfort of his own bed and the lover he left behind. He craves the feeling of satin draped over his skin and the gentle caress of feeble hands over his tattooed torso. Something softer than the life he has laid out before him.

It’s in the mere hours before sunrise, where night is no longer night, and morning is not yet morning, that he feels something remotely close to his longing for home. He feels pressure on his arm as he sleeps on his side, cramped in a small bed underneath the concrete roof of their barrack. It’s gentle and in his half sleep-induced state, it takes him a while to realize that it’s real and absolutely there.

Papillon holds his breath, as if any sort of movement will rip him from his dream and throw him back into the blazing fire that has been set to French Guiana. He relaxes underneath the touch and for a moment, he imagines himself laying on a soft mattress in Paris; the moonlight pouring in from the open balcony and reflecting off the gold surface of the curling bedframe. Images of people dancing and laughing and drinking flash behind his lids. Papillon can’t remember the last time he felt this content, this calm yet exposed. It takes some effort to keep his tears from spilling from beneath his eyelids.

He exhales deeply and turns onto his back, then once again onto his opposite side, finally facing the source behind the touch. The pressure is no longer on his arm but he doesn’t feel disheartened by its absence because Dega is awake and staring back at him in the complete darkness of their own personal prison.

They’ve been shipped off to the penal colony no more than three months ago, but to Papillon, a lifetime has already passed. He can see it in his hands, the way they shake every morning as hope slowly dissipates from his view. He can see it in his walk, when he shortens his strides because his legs ache from the physical labor. And now, he can see it in Dega’s face.

His skin is tan from the hours they have spent working underneath the relentless rays of the South American sun. His hair is unkempt, dark brown strands sticking out precariously in every direction. There are dark circles under his eyes. Papillon knows that they serve as a reminder of the many sleepless nights they have shared with their feet chained to the foot of their bed. His face is covered in shadows and he wears the expression of defeat quite well.

But amidst all of his anxiety stricken features, Papillon still sees a glimmer of hope in Degas’ eyes. They’re bright and round and so unbelievably green in the pale moonlight.

Papillon stares into them and Dega stares back.

He wonders if this is as comforting for Dega as it is for him. He wonders if the man laying inches away from him feels the same wave of peace wash over him when he sees his familiar face. He must, seeing as Papillon has sworn to watch over him, just for the time being. He knows they have made an unlikely alliance. Papillon would never have given him a second glance if it weren’t for the assistance he was able to provide to help fund his escape. Unlikely? For sure. Regrettable? Absolutely not. How could he regret the close relationship they have come to acquire over the last few months of being nothing but dead men walking?

It’s silent. The darkness of the night is creeping in on them. The only sounds are coming from the men sleeping mere feet away from them, rustling on top of the rough mattresses, all trapped in their own nightmarish dreams. And all Papillon can think about is escaping. That’s all he’s been able to think about since they’ve arrived at the prison. The idea of escape has controlled almost every single one of his actions. Every time he is forced to lift a heavy rock, he thinks ‘this will make me stronger, so I will be ready when the time comes’.

Escape is all he can think about. Even now, when he is still staring back into a vast sea of green. Papillon swears that if he looks long enough, hard enough, he can see birds soaring, making their home among the treetops of a long forgotten wood.

Escape is all he can think about. Even if it is simply for momentary bliss. And that’s what controls his actions.

Papillon gently reaches his hand out to rest on the side of Dega’s face, his fingers idly running through the brown curls near his ear. He watches him closely, looking for any sign of discomfort. Papillon finds none; Dega is silent as his eyes remain fixed on Papillons’. He takes a moment before slightly tilting his head downwards. The space between them slowly diminishes before Papillon can feel the warmth of Dega’s breath on his lips. Neither of them pull away. Neither of them want to. But he’s not the one who finishes it.

In a matter of seconds, Degas’ lips are on his and it’s the softest thing Papillon has felt since he reached the hell stained country he’s meant to die in. It’s not soft in the way that it physically feels; his lips are course and cracked, burned by the sun. Papi realizes that even though the sun has ruined everything, it’s made itself a part of the other man. He is the sun. He is the product of their suffering.

Degas’ hands roam to grasp at the front of his shirt. Although the kiss is gentle, his hands seem desperate to grab onto anything solid. It deepens the pressure between them and for a moment, Papillon simply revels in the warmth of the touch.

He keeps thinking that this isn’t wrong. This is how it should be. Just him and Dega and the moon pouring in through the barred windows of their barrack. So he continues to move his hand from the side of Dega’s face to the crook of his neck and gently massages his fingers through his tangled curls. Dega sighs into his mouth. It’s soft in the way that it makes Papillon feel; like he is home, wrapped in the embrace of someone he has missed and has yearned to see for years and years.

And that’s when he begins to feel wrong. His mind begins to race and he thinks that maybe he’s using Dega as an outlet. As a way to cope. As a way to comfort his touch-starved body. As a way to escape their life in hell, trapped in an unfamiliar world with no way out. His mind begins to race and he thinks maybe Dega is using him for the same reason. Perhaps he is just like Papi, so desperate to feel anything but fear and anxiety and dread. And Papillon knows he ruined it. Everything.

He moves away, his eyes clenched shut and his mouth pulled tight into a grimace, because now he knows it’s wrong. They aren’t in Paris. They aren’t home. They are still in French Guiana; slaves to the penal colony with death following close on their heels.

It takes Papi a few seconds before he opens his eyes, and when he does, he really wish he had just kept them shut. Degas’ eyes are wide, shifting to look at Papis’ one at a time. He’s searching for a reason. Searching for an answer as to why he pulled away. Searching for any sign of regret or disappointment, because after all, he was the one who kissed him first. He was the one who started this whole thing.

Unexpectedly, Papillon finds himself getting angry. Both at himself and at Dega. Why did Dega have to do it? Now, they have to deal with this unnecessary tension and regret on top of everything else. But why did he pull away? He wanted it. He needed it. Yet, Papillon knows it was wrong. He blames it on months under the burning heat of the sun, months of eating rotting bread as a meal, months of cold nights with no body pressed against his. Papillon’s mind has simply chalked it up to two men needing any sort of physical contact.

Dega sighs, his breath gently drifting over Papi’s cool skin. His brows are raised and knitted together. Like Papillon thought before, he wears the expression of defeat well.

Papillon shifts to turn away from the other man, back to the first position when he felt Dega’s hand on his arm. He realizes how cold of a night it is and wants nothing more for the pressure to return. He stares at the back of another man sleeping on a bunk only a foot away. He knows sleep is not going to pity him; it’s not going to come back for him this night or even the next few nights. So Papillon simply stares.

He mentally curses at himself, because he has never let anyone see him so vulnerable before. Not even Nenette. No, Papillon was always strong and tough and ready for a fight. How could one weak man change his whole existence with one simple look? One frail, small, and delicate man. He thinks this over and over before finally coming to a conclusion; Papillon knows that he will only ever be his strongest for Dega, and he will only ever be his weakest for him as well.

It’s been a minute, or an hour, Papillon can’t keep track. Time moves differently here, he thinks. He feels the weight on their mattress shift before feeling Dega’s course lips against the back of his ear. He shutters at the feeling. Dega probably thinks he has already dozed off into a fitful night of rest, but sleep never came for him.

“J’ai besoin de toi.” Dega’s voice is soft and raspy and deep and his breath brushes against Papi’s short hair. The way he says it is almost as if it were a desperate plea. As if he thinks Papillon is going to disappear into the night despite the metal cuffs chaining his legs in place.

Dega needs him. He knows this. He won’t survive without him. He’s weak and defenseless and such an easy target. He knows Dega needs him, but Dega doesn’t know that he needs him too. Not simply for his money, but as a purpose to stay alive and as a purpose to find a way to escape.

He feels the warmth disappear from his side. It doesn’t return for the rest of the night. Papillon knows they won’t discuss this. Not when the sun comes up and not when the sun goes down. This is simply between them; no words need to be said in order for this memory to stay alive.

And when the sun does come up the next morning, Papillon realizes that he was right. They don’t speak a word about what happened the other night. It’s almost as if it never actually occurred and Papi feels somewhat relieved. That is, until they finally get a moment alone, sitting outside their barrack, smoking cigarettes in the lessening heat of the late afternoon.

Papi flicks his cigarette into his mouth, silently pleased with the new trick he has learned over the last few months. Dega reaches over the small space they have between them, his lighter lit and held up to the butt of Papi’s smoke. He inhales, then exhales, the smoke pouring from his nostrils and his slightly parted mouth. They bask in the few moments of peace.

“What does that mean?” Dega asks, looking over at Papi who currently has his eyes closed. He peers over at the other man, his eyes half lidded as the back of his head rests against the wall behind him. Dega is pointing at his bare chest, signaling to the butterfly tattoo inked onto his skin. Papi looks down, eyeing the poorly done artwork. The lines are crooked and some of them are thicker than the others, but he doesn’t regret it.

“Je vole,” Papillon responds.

“’I steal’.” Dega says it so confidently.

Papi lets out a small laugh. “Sure, I’ve done plenty of that.” He sits up, removing his half-burned cigarette from his lips and flicking the ash to the pavement in front of him. He glances back up, staring directly into Degas’ eyes. “It also means ‘I fly’.”

It’s Dega’s turn to laugh. Papillon smiles back.

“Underestimate me now, but one day, I’m going to grow a pair of wings and never look back.”

And Dega’s expression ever so slowly turns into one of sorrow and grief. He looks down passed the thick lenses of his glasses, glancing at the smoke he is holding between his fingers, unbothered by the growing end of ash threatening to spill over. Papillon has gotten so good at reading Dega; his emotions and the way he can tell when something isn’t right. He gently pats Dega’s back, running his hand over his tan and scarred skin.

“And you’re coming with.” It’s all Papi can say, all he can do to reassure the man that they are going to make it home. Together. Because just as Dega had told him the night before; they need each other.

Dega slowly shakes his head in disagreement. It's small, as if he meant for no one to see, but Papillon does. "Prison was meant for men like me."

All Papi wants to do is tell him how unbelievably wrong he is. Dega is an artist who made his living creating beautiful works of art; beautiful, yet a disgrace to the country of France. Dega didn't belong here, caged with murderers and rapists and thieves. He belonged in Paris. He belonged in a beautiful Victorian home with gold trim and a vase of flowers on every table. He belonged next to the wealthiest individuals in the country, with a glass of the most expensive champagne in his hand.  

"Prison wasn't meant for men," Papillon responds. For him, it's the most honest thing he has said. 

The day ends as quickly as it started. Every man is herded into their barracks, feet strapped into metal chains and doors locking with a clang. Hours pass and every man is asleep. All of a sudden, it’s just Papi and Dega once again. Papi still can’t face him; his back remains towards the other man, until he feels the familiar pressure of a hand against his arm.

“I have an idea,” Dega whispers, speaking to the back of Papillon’s head.

Papi can’t be bothered to turn around or even respond. He doesn’t want to. He’s afraid to.

Dega lets out a deep breath. “I know how we can escape.”

With that, Papi finally turns over. “I’m listening.”

* * *

 

J’ai besoin de toi: I need you


	2. Let me go home (I want to go home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a plan that will work, but it has to be done right. It has to be done precisely, in the exact moments that may be hard to come by. Time is their ally, but also their foe. They have to be ready. Even if it takes them months, or even years. It could happen tonight, it could happen tomorrow, it could happen when their hair has turned grey from age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I honestly can't tell you guys how thankful I am to receive such kind feedback on my first chapter. I really appreciate the time everyone has taken to read and comment on my writing, thank you so much! As always, any comment/feedback is appreciated.
> 
> Ahh! Ok so this chapter is honestly just trying to move the plot along, but here's some sad Papi and jealous Dega for you. I PROMISE, the next chapter is absolutely more Papi/Dega centered and I'm super excited to finish writing it and even more excited for you all to read it! There is more (and better) content to come!

The nights that follow are ones where Papillons’ eyes remain glued to the ceiling; counting the grey bricks over and over until he’s certain that he has counted them all, at least three times over. He gets some shut eye here and there, but mainly lingering in a state of limbo. Sure, anxiety is playing a large role in his restlessness. Anxiety about surviving through the next day, and the day after, and the one after that. Anxiety about keeping Dega alive.

There’s a prisoner, who is just like them, but he was fortunate enough to land the task of shackling other prisoners to their beds every night. He disgusts Papi. Not because he takes part in the flawed and fucked up system that is keeping them hostage, but because of his perverted glances and the remarks he makes towards Dega. Papillon has sworn to protect him. Even if it’s verbally - one night, while every man in their barrack stood at the foot of their bed waiting for the cold grip of metal around their ankles, the man placed his hand on Dega’s face and caressed his jawline with his index finger. Dega recoiled, looking down at his bare feet ever so passively. Papi intervened.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he remarked, his voice quiet yet threatening.

The prisoner (or guard, at this point, Papi wasn’t sure how he identified himself) glanced up at him. Papi stood half a head taller than both men. The guard chuckled, unintimidated by his broad shoulders and straight posture. Papillon felt his stomach churn in the familiar bath of anger.

“Looks like you got yourself a boyfriend.” The prisoner/guard was still staring Papillon down, even though he meant to speak to Dega in his condescending tone. Papi simply sneered and his metal chains dug deeper into his skin that night.

Papillons’ nights were definitely filled with anxiety. He finally admits it to himself a week after Dega tells him about his plans to escape. He never doubted that it would work because he constantly feeds the animal of determination clawing at the back of his mind. It will work. It will work because it has to. The fire of hope is always burning behind his eyelids when he closes them. It’s always burning when he feels Dega’s body pressed against his. Some days, it burns brighter. And other days, it’s nothing but a faint glow from the embers of charred wood and coal.

It’s a plan that will work, but it has to be done right. It has to be done precisely, in the exact moments that may be hard to come by. Time is their ally, but also their foe. They have to be ready. Even if it takes them months, or even years. It could happen tonight, it could happen tomorrow, it could happen when their hair has turned grey from age.

But their plan was set into motion a mere seven days later.

As if being imprisoned on a remote infernal wasteland was not enough, they’ve been assigned to work for the dedicated God living beneath the soil they stand on. Three months, almost four, of constant physical labor. At first, Papillon would return to their barrack with shaking legs and painful aches. But now, he has grown accustomed to it. Almost as if he’s immune to feeling anything. Dega, on the other hand, still complains.

They’re on their usual break. It occurs every day, when the sun is at its highest, burning their skin and staining their uniforms with sweat. Papi still hates it. He’s come to associate the sun with hell; with everything that is wrong in the universe. He glances over at Dega and sees him tear into a small loaf of bread, so charitably yet reluctantly given by the warden and the guards.

“Never thought a man of my status would end up in a place like this,” Dega remarks, dryly swallowing a mouthful of stale bread.

Papillon simply laughs. “You never thought forging your way to wealth would end with some sort of consequence?” And Dega doesn’t smile. He doesn’t feed Papillon’s banter, because he knows that deep down, something like this was bound to happen. Especially to someone like him.

Dega opens his mouth, on the brink of replying. Papillon expects a comment filled with malice and despair. But there’s some sort of commotion that ensues and he looks up from his own small meal that is supposed to somehow fulfill his need for nutrients. He sees an unfamiliar wagon, trapped in the relentless mud of French Guiana. It’s filled with wooden crates and leather cases. And women. Three of them to be exact.

They are all dressed in elaborate gowns and for a moment, Papi is transported back to France. Back to his drunken nights spent roaming the cobblestone streets with a bottle of wine in his hands and his Nenette wrapped in his arms. And how he yearns to be home in that exact moment. He misses smoking cigarettes on his balcony and the rush of adrenaline he used to get from turning locks on metal safes. He misses the sight of diamonds glinting in poorly lit rooms and the scent of Peonies planted outside of beautiful Parisian homes.

Home. He misses the idea of having the privilege of calling some place home.

“You there!” Papi is pulled from his thoughts. He realizes he has been staring. A guard is shouting at him across the river of mud. This time, it’s a real guard, not a prisoner adorned in his own disguise. “Since you seem so keen on looking at these women, perhaps you’d like to help.”

Papi glances at Dega, who glances back at him. His eyes are wide in shock but Papillon knows better than to refuse the demands of someone who has volunteered to be there. Someone who is free to leave anytime he wants. So he shoves his half-eaten bread into Degas’ shaking hands and makes his way through the mud, closer and closer to the wagon, leaving the other man sitting on an uncomfortable rock.

A woman in an emerald green dress, with a gold hem glinting in the sunlight, extends her arms, wide and accepting of Papillons’ strong hold. She's smiling down at him, looking at him as her temporary hero. He carries her bridal style, half expecting her to weigh more. The tule of her gown, possibly one of the most beautiful things Papi has seen, looks so out of place in the morbid gravity of the gradual downfall of his life. Of his reason to stay alive.

It's difficult; the mud is up to Papillons’ knees and although the woman he is carrying is nothing but skin and bones, he finds himself out of breath as soon as he places her down on a dry ledge, on the opposite side of the brown and hungry earth. He glances up at her. Her features are soft and so pale; her nose is straight and her eyes are hazel, speckled with the most vibrant colors of gold and green. Papillon thinks that her dress was made specifically for them. Her hair is almost white and Papillon knows that the color is pure. Untainted and natural.

“Tes yeux sont si bleu,” she says. Her voice is high and feminine and beautiful, just like the rest of her. “Ils me rappellent l'océan.”

And Papi can’t help but to revel in the familiar sound of French effortlessly flowing behind her red lips. Only one other person could make him feel so nostalgic; the same man he left to sit alone, blistering underneath the South American sun.

“Tu l'as vu?” Papillon asks. He’s gazing up at her, his hands resting on her covered thighs. She looks surprised, almost alarmed. A faint smile slowly grows across her lips.

“You speak French?”

Papillon doesn’t understand why she sounds so shocked because of course he does. He is part of the penal colony, just like every other prisoner here. He is a convict of ‘Camp De La Transportation’. He can still clearly see the words marked in stone, even when he closes his eyes in hope of a good night’s rest. He’s confused and his expression must show it because the women in the emerald dress looks down from her seat on the ledge in pity.

“Sorry, I’m not used to hearing it. Especially where we are.” And Papi learns to understand. Perhaps she is a prisoner herself; not forced into metal cuffs and not forced to burn in the morning sun. But she is a prisoner, nonetheless. A prisoner to the greed of men and a prisoner to fake lust and the promise of love. Papillon can only nod.

“But I have seen it, the ocean” she adds. “It’s beautiful. Vast and calm and I’ve never felt so small in my life.”

“I’d like to see it again someday,” Papi responds. His voice is small and his palms are burning into her dress. He swears he can feel her flesh beneath all of the fabric.

“But it’s also unforgiving. Sometimes, it’s angry. Sometimes, it’s desperate to leave and find a home on the sand.” She looks down at Papi and Papi looks up at her. “Sometimes, it’s desperate to leave everything behind, every soul it’s swallowed and every ship it’s sank.”

Papi begins to feel a wave of nausea swell in the pit of his near-empty stomach. Her eyes are wide and the sun behind her is casting her face is shadows. It almost looks as if she is wearing a halo; her blonde hair set in a white glow framing her face.

“But it’s innocent of everything,” she’s quick to add. “It’s the fault of men that it’s so tainted.” And Papillon couldn’t agree more. It’s the blood thirsty hands of powerful and rich men that have taken complete control of everything surrounding him; every thought, every move, and every step he is forced to take. The prisoners, the guards, the warden, all in control of him.

The woman leans down, blocking the light from Papi’s view. Her face is only inches away from his and he smells the sweet scent of cheap perfume that fuels his longing for the home he had once remembered. He closes his eyes and inhales, reminiscing on the lazy afternoons he spent with Nenette, his hands tangled in her soft hair. The memory of the touch is so strong, as if he can feel the separate strands of her hair beneath his fingers.

And when he opens his eyes again, he realizes that it is because his hands are running through the blonde locks of the strange woman sitting in front of him. He wants to pull away. He wants to return to Dega’s side and continue their work, sacrificing their bodies to the consuming soul of their life sentence. But he can’t. So he doesn’t.

“It reminds me of you,” she whispers. His fingers are tangled through her messy hair, the humidity and heat causing every touch to stick.

“I need a boat.”

And with that, she leans back a little, as if she were expecting something more subtle. Something softer. Papillon sees this and waits for her to scream; for her to yell to her keeper that he is planning an escape. That he is just as tainted as the men who have tainted the ocean. But it doesn’t come.

“I know of someone,” she replies, her voice impossibly quiet, much quieter than before. “Go south. He’ll be waiting, but he carries a large price.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Now Papillon is wearing the expression of shock. And once again, his mind begins to race. This has to be a trap. There has to be some kind of string attached. The anxiety diminishes once he glances back over at his shoulder; back at Dega who is sitting right where he left him, looking at him and waiting so impatiently for him to return.

He turns his head to face her once again. “Why are you helping me?”

She sighs. “Because you’re innocent.” Papi realizes that the halo of light cast behind her head suits her well, because how else could she have known if she wasn’t sent from some God living above the hellish sun; the blazing sphere burning in the sky, serving as a reminder that there must be something greater behind their torment.

“That’s enough.”

Papillon flinches when hears the deep voice of the guard and feels a strong hand on his shoulder. Papi’s grasp is pulled away from the woman’s head, leaving him to crave the touch all over again.

He slowly trudges his way back over to Dega, his eyes fixed on the ground, counting every passing rock, not daring to look up. His fists are clenched tight as finds his seat next to Dega once again. It feels as though hours have passed. He basks in the temporary bliss; the touch of a fallen angel underneath the palms of his stained and cursed hands.

“You are quite the charmer, aren’t you?” Dega’s question sounds more like a statement. Papillon finally looks up and Degas’ brows are furrowed in disapproval. As if jealously has taken ahold of him.

“Only when I need to be,” Papi responds. He smiles as he uncurls one of his hands, making sure that no one else is watching. A small silver object lies in his calloused palm. It shines underneath the rays of the sun, glinting every time his hand shakes.

“A hairpin?” Dega asks, confusion met with anger, all twisting within his few words. But he still can’t help himself from admitting that Papillon is a clever man.

“If I can hack a safe, I can pick a lock.” Papillon smiles and gives Dega a quick wink before pocketing their treasured object as if it were the only thing left keeping them alive. Step one of their plan was now complete.

They work until the sky changes from bright hues of blue to dark oranges and purples. Dega doesn’t say a word to Papillon for the remainder of the day. He throws boulders into carts and winces when his body screams at him to stop. Papi knows better than to tell him to take a break, especially when he’s in one of his irritated and frustrated moods. So Dega doesn’t stop. Not until the guards call it and every man is ushered back to the camp; their hungry stomachs desperate for food and anything to quench their thirst, and their overheated bodies anxious for the cool embrace of clean water pouring over their skin.

 

* * *

 

If anyone speaks or knows any French, please let me know if I am completely butchering the language. I sincerely apologize if it's incorrect!

Tes yeux sont si bleu: You're eyes are so blue  
Ils me rappellent l'océan: They remind me of the ocean  
Tu l'as vu?: Have you seen it?


	3. This home is home (but for you, this place is shame)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you miss it?” he whispers over to the man whose shoulder is currently pressed against his. He earns a sigh from the other side of the mattress.
> 
> “Miss what?” Dega sounds tired of his presence and Papillon tries to fix it.
> 
> “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH words cannot express how thankful I am to receive such wonderful comments! I don't know any of you, but please know that I love you! 
> 
> As promised, here is a more Papi/Dega centered chapter! It's just more of jealous Dega and lowkey unware Papillon. I'm not sure why, but I've always pictured Dega as a dominant and protective asshole (like he's smol but also ready to fight anyone who gets in between him and Papi). I live for it. 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave any comments/feedback (even constructive!!) Enjoy!

Showers are the only thing that Papillon has to look forward to. Especially now, after spending hours drenched in nothing but sweat; the salt dripping from his forehead and travelling down towards his eyes, burning them and causing them to turn red. His tongue often travels to his lips, licking them in attempt to quench his intensifying thirst. Sometimes, he’ll close his eyes and imagine that it’s the familiar taste of the salt water ocean, rising up to greet him in a familiar dream he once had, long ago.

He was part of the French navy once. Back when he was young and full of life. Back when his body was ready for work and his soul was clad in iron, unwilling to be broken. Way before he had met his fate working for the Parisian underworld. Papillon didn’t sign up for it because of the recognition he knew he would receive; the adoring men and women all eagerly waiting for his company to return, asking him about his heroic work while killing the enemy, trying to keep his country safe.

Papi signed up for it for the unforgiving feeling of freedom. He yearned for the rush of wind against his face, leaving his cheeks dry and pink. He wanted to get away from his boring life in France. He needed an escape. Papillon knows he’s good at the whole notion behind escape, leaving everything he has come to know to drown in the darkness of his tall shadow as he turns his back to it.

It didn’t last long – the momentary status he received as a brave and patriotic seaman. He spent a good part of his deployment living within the musty cells underneath the ship’s deck. Papillon’s spirit didn’t break then, and he’d be damned if he let it break now. He misses it: the ocean. But now, all he has as a reminder is the clean water dripping from the bucket above his head.

Although its cold and the wetness stings his burning skin, he basks in the cool embrace of his distant memories. He cleans himself as he showers, rubbing away the cursed soil that has etched itself into almost every crevice of his body. He takes a moment to look up, glancing over at Dega who is drenched and focused on ridding his body of its own hell, only standing three feet away.

Dega is always stays close to him. Whether they are eating, working, or sleeping, Papillon knows he can always find comfort in the fact that no matter where he goes, he will always be next to him. The other prisoners have gradually adapted to it; knowing that if they see Papillon, Dega is always somewhere near, following close behind. Papi’s chest swells with the idea that Dega has found comfort in him, and not in the warmth of the sun, not in the swaying leaves of the palm trees, and not in the idea of death so easily obtainable.

And suddenly, Papillons’ eyes are met with the landscape of green living within Degas’. It’s silent and they continue to stare at one another. Papillon watches as Dega’s gaze begins to lower, looking at his tattooed chest, then down to his bare and un-inked abdomen, and then down to his waist, slowly lowering to his feet. He knows Dega can see him looking. He knows he is watching him take him all in; the sight of him so exposed and uncovered.

Then Dega’s gaze travels back up to meet Papi’s, and Papillon doesn’t look away. He holds his ground, not daring to cover up his naked body. They stare at one another, soap pouring from their hair and down their bare skin. Until Dega finally looks away, wiping the water droplets from the lenses of his round glasses.

In the deafening silence and the soft patter of water hitting the concrete beneath their feet, they can hear the metal clangs of the locks to the shower open. A guard steps in and they know that their time spent reveling in the momentary comfort of purity has come to an end. Papi gently pats Dega’s shoulder twice, signaling for him to finish up. They pull their uniforms on, even though their bodies are still soaked.

The red and white striped shirt hangs loosely over Papillon’s large frame. It used to fit him quite well, but that was at least four months prior. And the shirt Dega had received never even fit him in the first place. But he still buttons it up all the way, until the collar rides up to his neck, covering his skin from any further torment from the sun. Papillon leaves his undone.

As soon as they step out of the cell of the shower (Papillon realized long ago that privacy was hard to come by), he blindly follows Dega back to what he assumes to be their barrack. Papi can see over Dega’s head, watching the brick wall pass on this left. He realizes that Dega hasn’t said a word to him. Not since ground zero. Not since their last meal. It bothers him.

So he quickens his pace, his long strides carrying his exhausted body until he is in front of Dega. He turns to face him and they both stop in their place.

“What’s the matter with you?” Papi asks. Although he meant it in all seriousness, the question comes out as lighthearted. He’s gotten very good at easing the tension between them.

He’s met with a small smirk. One side of Degas’ lips is turned higher than the other and his brows furrow in confusion. As if he truly didn’t understand why he was asking him in the first place.

“What do you mean?” he replies.

Papi knows he’s trying his hardest to cover up whatever has been frustrating him, but Dega’s response still leaves him at a loss for words; as if he was expecting him to tell him whatever was weighing heavy on his mind. He is still learning how to navigate the harsh waters of Dega’s brilliant mind.

So when Papi doesn’t respond with a follow up question, Dega simply scoffs and pushes past him with his shoulder and continues walking, leaving Papillon to stay in his frozen state of confusion. He has never seen him like this before, so of course he stands there for a few seconds, pondering the possibilities of ways to make whatever this is, better.

“Hey!” Papillon shouts after him. He has to jog to catch up, but once he does, he puts his hand on his shoulder and Dega pulls away from his touch. Now he knows something is definitely wrong.

“Hey,” he repeats, this time much quieter and concerned. Both men have stopped walking now. They are somewhere between the cell of the shower and their barrack, but there is no one in sight. Not a single prisoner, not a single guard watching their every move. It’s just the brick wall next to them and the constant reminder that they are meant to suffocate until they are buried eight feet under.

Papillon steps in front of him once again, using his advantage in height to try his hardest to intimidate the man standing before him into spilling his burdened thoughts. But Dega doesn’t meet his gaze. His eyes are fixed on the dirty loafers that Papi had slipped over his feet in a rush. 

Papi reaches a hand out, gently lifting Dega’s strong chin until he’s looking up at him. Once their eyes finally meet, he lowers his hand back down to his side, brushing against the waistband of his uniform that is currently concealing their newest found treasure. If he loses it, they might as well start calling South America ‘home’.

Dega gives him a smile. It’s not genuine or comforting in the least. It’s sarcastic and annoyed and it scares Papi, because whatever he did, he might have lost him. He might have lost the only constant thing in his life that brings him joy. He feels worry creep over his lips and eyes and forehead. Dega’s expression doesn’t change.

“Who’s Nenette?” His voice is still dry and course from the unyielding pain of the day’s work.

Papi looks at him, then at the wall, then at the ground. Dega knows her name and suddenly, Papi finds himself questioning if whether or not he had actually died in Pairs and was currently living the rest of eternity in hell. That would explain a lot of things; that would explain his constant hunger, his constant need for sleep, and his constant yearning for home. He gathers his courage to look back up.

“How do you know that name?”

Dega lets out a small laugh, his eyes unbelievably clear through the bulky lenses of his glasses. He shrugs and looks down at his feet, toeing at a small pebble barely camouflaging itself among the dry dirt.

“You say her name a lot, especially when you sleep” Dega replies, not looking up from the ground. But when he finally does, his eyes are wide and burning with something that Papi can’t quite put his finger on. It’s wild and animalistic and he thinks that Dega owns him now. “You think about her a lot.” It’s a harsh statement, no question lingering behind his words.

And Papillon doesn’t deny it. He can’t, because he knows it’s true and because he knows that Dega has the ability to sniff out any lie he tells. He doesn’t acknowledge it either. He doesn’t tell Dega that yes, he dreams about her almost every time his mind gives him a chance to sleep. He doesn’t tell Dega that he misses her scent and her soft porcelain skin and the way she made him feel so alive. He doesn’t say any of that.

Dega leans in closer. His smile is gone and his features are pulled tight. As small as he is, Papillon realizes how intimidating his stare can be. Every carefree comment he has made before has completely lost its value. The air is thick as it surrounds them and Papillon doesn’t remember the last time he has taken a breath.

“I wonder if she thinks about you as much as you think about her,” Dega whispers, his face only an inch away from Papi’s. “Even when she fucks other men.”

The comment is filled to the brim with spite; with jealousy and malice. Papi is angry again. The small flame in the pit of his stomach is now boiling over, threatening to make its presence known. And it does.

His hands are tangled in the fabric of Dega’s shirt in the matter of seconds. He pushes the smaller man until his back hits the brick wall behind him, hard. Papillon’s breathing is uneven. He feels his nostrils flare with every exhale, because now, Dega made it personal. Dega has exposed his weakness and Papi is supposed to be the strongest person here. He’s only supposed to be known as his protector; as Dega’s guardian, but with his few words, he has been left unmasked and stripped raw.

Papis’ eyes bore holes into Degas’, his frame towering over him. He’s half expecting him to look scared; expecting him to fear his monstrous rage. Instead, Dega’s mouth is slightly parted and there’s a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. His eyelids look heavy, concealing part of his green irises in a state of temporary content, because he knows what he’s done. He finally crawled his way underneath Papi’s skin and now Papi’s forced to dig in order to claw him out.

Both men are flustered in their own right; their breathing uneven and suffocating and Papi can smell the scent of stale cigarettes clinging to Dega’s breath.

“Don’t ever- ” Papi’s determined sentence is cut short when he feels Dega’s hand roughly pull at the small hairs behind his head. Instead, he finishes his thought with a quiet yelp. It’s muffled to silence when he’s forcefully pulled in closer.

His lips crash into Degas’. It’s vigorous and rushed and their teeth click together and it’s everything but soft. It’s everything but the romantic grazes he used to feel from the soft lips of his Nenette. It’s unfamiliar and strange and not at all like the first kiss they shared between them, while they were drowning in the uncomfortable and stifling blackness of the night.

This time, Dega is desperate. Papi knows this. Even though it’s difficult for him to admit, he is desperate too. Desperate to feel any sort of emotion. Desperate to feel any sort of touch. Desperate specifically for Dega. For his warmth, for his hands, for his unending devotion.

And Papillon feels himself soften into the kiss, letting go of his anger and letting his guard drop just for the time being. One of his hands break free from the front of Dega’s shirt and he moves it to the crook of his neck, gently tilting the smaller man’s jaw upwards. He doesn’t know when it turned into something so lax; something so gentle and welcoming, when moments ago, they clung to each other as if either one of them were about to sink below the crushing waves of the ocean surface.

Although it’s gentle, it’s still different. Degas’ lips aren’t soft and he feels course stubble underneath the pad of his thumb as it grazes over his sharp jawline. It’s different; Dega’s glasses dig into the skin of his cheeks. Sure, it hurts, but Papi doesn’t want to move away because this is what he has yearned for.

Hands are tangled in his hair, then caressing his neck, then tugging on his shirt. Then he feels the presence of Dega’s forgiving hand press against his bare sternum, gently pushing him away. So Papillon leans back, looking down at the man pressed against the wall.

The frames of Dega’s glasses are slightly off centered and his hair is nothing but a curly mop on top of his head. His lips are red, not just from the sun’s plaguing heat. And Dega stares up at him. There’s no sign of remorse, no sign of disappointment or fear. Papillon knows that he is a lot stronger than he physically appears.

Instead, Dega wears the same smirk, but this time, there’s satisfaction in the absence of annoyance.

“You want to escape? Fine,” Dega says between rushed breaths. Papi is still trying to catch his. “But from here on out, we do it my way.” And with that, Dega pushes himself off the wall and past Papillon, once again leaving him to his thoughts.

He’s left to watch Dega’s silhouette become smaller and smaller in the dark orange light of the setting sun. He’s left to wonder how different his life would have been if he had just stayed in the navy and never returned home; never returned to his materialistic life in Paris. Would he have found comfort in the rocking waves of a ship, the same way he finds comfort in Dega’s telling eyes? Would he have survived his years at sea without the knowing company of Dega’s body close to his? He comes to the conclusion that if he had, he would already be dead.

So Papi rejoins him when the moon is bright and full and reassuring him that there is something beyond heat and suffering. They stand at the foot of their shared bed and wait for the familiar sound of metal clasping around their ankles. Papi waits for the prisoner/guard to lustfully stare Dega down. When he does, he simply growls and the man tightens his chains.

They lie on their backs; both of them, staring at the ceiling Papillon has come to know too well. It’s deafeningly quiet, as always, and the position he is laying in is uncomfortable. But Papi is afraid to move. He keeps thinking back to their kiss. The one they shared a week ago, and the one they shared an hour ago. It still feels strange to him. Both were so utterly and completely different that it’s difficult for him to wrap his mind around Dega’s underlying intentions. His mind overworks itself as he thinks and thinks.

“Do you miss it?” he whispers over to the man whose shoulder is currently pressed against his. He earns a sigh from the other side of the mattress.

“Miss what?” Dega sounds tired of his presence and Papillon tries to fix it.

“Home.” It takes a few moments before he gets any kind of response.

“I did,” he replies. “For a while, I did.”

Papillon finally turns on his side to face him, glancing at the sharp outlines of the angles of his face; illuminated by the faint glow of the searching moon.

“But you don’t anymore,” Papi adds, his voice hushed over the quiet breathing of cursed men.

Dega shakes his head gently. It’s subtle, but the movement is definitely there. “No. My home wasn’t so kind.” And his words uncomfortably curl around the word ‘home.’ As if it were wretched; as if it burned him to even say.

Papillon tries to imagine what Dega’s home was like. He has done it before. He used to picture vast white rooms and silver kitchen sets and smiling parents. He thinks Dega would look more like his mother than his father. But after this quiet conversation, Papillon’s picturesque fantasy of Dega’s home life has begun to morph into something not so friendly. Perhaps his father was an alcoholic, perhaps his mother was unempathetic, perhaps she had a cold touch and his father had a rough one.

Papi reaches his hand out to touch him, resting it on Dega's shoulder, heavy and concrete. He does it because he wants to. He does it because he knows Dega needs it; the physical reassurance that not everything in this world has to be so cruel, not everything has to be so unforgiving and harsh. Papis' fingers brush against the side of his face and Dega leans into it. His eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow and even. He looks so unbelievably peaceful in the small glow pouring in from the windows and Papi can't help but to revel in how beautiful he looks in this exact moment. Even more so than the lover he had left in France.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he sees Dega turn his head to meet his gaze. “In some ways, this is better,” Dega softly explains. “This life is good for me, even if it is just temporary.”

And with that, Dega turns his body to face the wall.

So Papillon shifts onto his back once again, staring up at his concrete friend. And he thinks that if everything is temporary, then so is this; so is their torment and so are the metal cuffs clinging to his ankles. If everything is temporary, then so is the warmth of Dega by his side. He brushes the thought away. They haven’t planned out the rest of their lives; nothing beyond their escape from the camp, because they know if they had, it would only be giving them false hope.

Papi falls asleep that night, for the first time in a long time. He falls asleep to the sound of the crickets singing from the grass outside the barred widows. He falls asleep to the sound of the guard snoring loudly outside of their sturdy barrack; yet another crucial piece to their plan to escape.


	4. I know that I did you wrong (I'll make it up to you somehow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When the time comes, and I’m forced to choose between staying with you and going home to France,” he begins, unwilling to continue. “I’ll choose home every time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m sorry this took me longer than usual, but I’ve realized that the reason why I’m privileged in posting a chapter every day is because they are so ugly and short and you guys deserve soo much better. SO I decided to make this one slightly longer! I hope you guys are ready for some smut! That being said – 
> 
> Warning: reader discretion is advised. I'm about to change the rating on this bad boy. 
> 
> BUT AH ok here’s some Dega x Papi content (I thrive off of the idea of Dega being Papi’s sugar daddy ok) and there is some more to come! Also, some Dega x Papi angst (because I’m a sucker for the whole h/c stuff). I hope you guys like it!

Ground Zero: such a fitting name for such a loathsome place. Ground zero, as in the place where time stops and suffering begins. Where optimism, contentment, and human spirit, are sucked into the dry earth, parched and longing to quench its demanding thirst. Where any telling sign of the will to live is absorbed into the ground beneath them, leaving them as empty shells of men. No hope. No future. No compassion or sympathy. Nothing. Nada. Rein. Nothing but the heat burning off of their scalps and radiating from the skin beneath their collective uniforms.

The same uniforms that act as chains. Although they are nothing but cloth, Papillon despises them. They constantly remind him and Dega of their life sentence. Of the idea that escape is only a distant and unobtainable dream. It makes him feel small. Papillon hates it. It makes him feel like a child; he has no control over his future and he has no control over the glinting fantasy of being free.

The sun is barely peaking its head from behind the horizon as he stands in a long line of men, all waiting to be herded towards their usual extensive day of work. It’s casting shadows from behind the palm trees, covering them in the sweet embrace of rare shade. Papillon wishes it would stay like that. There’s a cool breeze in the air, shifting through the leaves and tousling his slightly overgrown hair. He closes his eyes. Only for a moment. He doesn’t dare to open them, even when he hears the familiar shout of a guard telling them to move forward, towards the ninth and final circle of hell.

He takes an unwilling step forward, readying himself for the fourth month of unforgiving anguish. But just as he does, Papi feels a strong hand grasp his shoulder from behind and he knows in a second that it’s not Dega’s. It’s too strong. The hand is too large. His eyes shoot open and he turns to face the source.

“Not these two,” Papi hears.

He’s met with the image of a man. His face is round and he looks so young. Papillon has never seen him before and he concludes that he must be new. His frame towers over his own but Papillon still has quite a few pounds on him. He’s frail and thin and he thinks that maybe they would have been good friends, before all of this happened. Before he became a disgrace to France. But however friendly the guard appears, he is still wearing that same beige suit that marks him as the enemy.

Papillon glances over at Dega, who of course is standing right beside him, looking up and seeing the same sight. So he’s not dreaming. But Dega doesn’t look nearly as surprised as him.

“We’re changing your detail. You’re going to the infirmary.”

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Papillon replies. Because why them? How did they become so lucky and fortunate enough to escape the deepest layer of hell? His gaze travels from the guard back down to Dega, who is wearing a smug expression, as if he knows something Papi doesn’t. He might be mistaken, and it might just be the sun playing tricks with his bloodshot eyes, but Dega almost looks proud.

“We don’t make mistakes.” And suddenly, the guard begins to look hostile. “Unfortunately, that’s a luxury we can’t afford.”

Papi still doesn’t believe him. He’s learned early on that he can’t trust a man dressed in a different uniform as his. He still can’t trust the men dressed in the same red and white strips that pattern his shirt and pants. Even if it wasn’t a mistake, the notion still seems too good to be true. Especially now; everything about this feels so wrong.

“This can’t be right. You must be looking for someone else.” His voice is knowing, because he’s so used to being the one in control.

“Fine,” the guard replies. The friendliness has slowly disappeared from his face. “If you rather continue to work out here, feel free.”

With that, Papillon feels the solid pressure of Dega’s hand resting against the small of his back. It’s light and comforting. This is the touch he knows. He looks back down at him, searching his eyes through the thick glass that is surrounding them.

“Leave well enough alone,” Dega whispers. Almost as soon as he felt it, the touch on his back is gone and he’s left to watch Dega saunter away, walking off with the enemy and making their way towards the hospital. Papillon stands in confusion, wondering why Dega was so unaware of their possible impending doom.

And that’s when it hits him. It hits him so hard and somewhere, a light turns on in his mind and he mentally curses at himself. Dega is a lot smarter than him. Dega is a lot more resilient, too. Papi should have known by now, he should have known better than to constantly underestimate him. Papillon doesn’t know if he should be relieved or fuming; but once again, his feeling of control has completely vanished, just like it would have at Ground Zero. So he chooses to stay mad.

The infirmary is quite different; the walls are white and bare, the beds are covered in the thickest mattresses, and the sheets are so incredibly clean. The sun can’t torment them here. There are still bars on every window, and Papi knows that even here, a much better alternative to the job they had before, they are still prisoners. They are still the filth that plagues France’s pure shores.

Papillon is on one side of the room, a broom in his hands. Dega is on the other, kneeling on the floor with a bucket and rag, ridding the concrete from the reddish stain of the dry dirt gusting through the windows. They don’t speak to one another. Papi is still mad at him and Dega is very good at acting like everything is okay.

There’s a man, a prisoner (Papi corrects himself, because none of them are men anymore), laying in one of the beds. The sheets are pulled up to his chin, his brown hair peeking out from behind the white background of his covers. His back is towards them and he’s not moving. He barely looks like he’s breathing.

“Don’t worry about him,” Dega says. Papi looks up from his work, glancing across the bone-white tiles of the room. Dega stands up from his task, wiping the wetness off of his hands onto the material covering his thighs. “He’s so strung out on whatever sedatives they’re giving him. I’d be surprised if he even remembers where he is.”

Papi watches as he pulls a carton of smokes from the waistband of his pants. He can see a quick flash of the lighter skin covering Degas’ hipbones; the skin that has been shown mercy from the beating rays of the sun. Papillon swallows dryly as he watches him light the butt and his lips curl around the opposite end. Dega seems so nonchalant in his actions and Papi remembers his anger.

“How much do you have left?” He asks, watching the other man exhale a cloud of smoke.

Dega simply shrugs. “I think there’s four,” he replies, glancing down at the cardboard container, counting his cigarettes to himself.

“God _damnit_ , Dega.” Papillon feels his anger grow. Dega is prone to making that happen. “How much do you have left?” He repeats himself, because he knows that Dega is trying to dance around his question. He’s trying to leave him in a state of vulnerability. In a state of unknowing and unease.

Dega remains silent and turns to look out one of the barred windows, his cigarette leaving then returning to his lips. He’s ignoring Papi’s curiosity and that makes him even more upset, even more annoyed than he already is. So Papillon throws his broom down, hitting the floor with a loud clang, not caring about the sleeping man and only hoping to arouse some sort of fear in Dega. But he remains as still as the concrete surrounding them, his gaze not moving from the window.  

Papillon crosses the room in four long strides, his bare feet heavy against the tiles beneath him. He’s inches away from the other man, the forger, the fraud. Dega still seems unphased. His smoke is hanging loosely from his lips and he refuses to acknowledge Papillon’s looming presence.

“I asked you a question, Dega.” Papi’s voice is full and deep, yet Dega still doesn’t look up. “Don’t play dumb.”

With that, he finally sees his glasses glint as his head turns away from the window, his gaze finally reaching Papi’s. He is anything but stupid; Papi knows this, and unfortunately, so does Dega.

“Does it matter?” Dega replies, flicking the ash of his cigarette onto the newly cleaned floor.

“Of course it fucking matters.” His words are twisted in confusion and anger, because that was their only way out. That was the only beacon of hope that they could latch onto. “How much money do you have left?”

He finally says it out loud. Every suspicion that he has had is left to float among the humid air of the damp room. Papi is surprised to see that Dega looks furious as well. His brows are furrowed and his chin is lifted in quiet intimidation. Papillon thinks he doesn’t have the right; there is no reason that he should be angry with him. Afterall, it was Dega who wasted a good chunk of the money he was carrying, their money, in order to land them some sort of safety working within the solid walls of the hospital.

“Don’t worry,” Dega states. His voice is thick and and it catches in back of his throat. “You’ll still receive your fair share.”

And all of a sudden, they are back to where they started. Back to the stale cells underneath the ship that transported him and Dega and every other criminal to this desolate wasteland. Back to when he asked Dega for money in exchange for protection. Papillon realizes now that Dega is testing him; trying to feel out where he stands in their relationship. Trying to see if he is still only in it for the money. Papillon has failed.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Papillon begins to feel guilt seep in through the strong walls of hate. He sighs, his anger slowly diminishing from his tensed body. “When the time comes, and I have a gun pointed to my head,” or God forbid it’s pointed at Dega’s (Papillon doesn’t say it out loud) “and we need that money-  ”

“I’ve got it handled,” Dega stops him mid-sentence. His cigarette has burned to the end. “I have enough.” It’s not the answer Papillon was hoping for, but at least its something more than deafening silence. So he leans back on his heals, giving the other man room to breathe.

“You should be thanking me,” Dega continues. “Another month working out there and you would have been dead.”

“Yeah.” Papillon is firm in his response. He knows it’s true. He hates Dega for saying it. “But you would’ve dropped dead long before me.”

His mind churns over the idea, the possibility, of what if? What if Dega only did this for himself? What if he wasn’t trying to return the favor of protection? Instead, he was simply looking out for himself and his frail body. Would he throw his money around so loosely just to keep Papillon alive? He thinks Dega would, but only if there was something waiting for him at the end of the jagged road laid out before them.

He watches as Dega lets the cigarette fall from his fingertips onto the floor, using the ball of his foot to extinguish whatever smoke was left coming from it. Papillon winces at the sight.

Dega looks up at him; angry and afraid. His eyes are round and his brows are still furrowed and Papillon knows that he was wrong for even thinking it. He was wrong for assuming that Dega only intended it for his own purpose.

And that’s when Dega lunges forward. Similar to their last encounter, his lips crash into Papis’ and he swears that there might be bruises left behind this time. His eyes shut tight and he feels Degas’ fingernails dig into his back. He feels them carve lines into his skin, even though it’s covered by the thick fabric of his shirt. He’s kissing Papi with the strength of a man who knows he might die soon; of a man who is starving for intimacy and craves the last tender feeling of someone’s warmth engulfing his cold body.

Papillon recoils in shock, taking a step back and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. He looks down at Dega, whose cheeks are red and flushed. His eyes are unbelievably wide and he can see a rough urge flash from behind his round glasses.

“We can’t do this here. Not now,” Papi states. As much as he wanted it, as much as he needed it, they couldn’t be careless. Especially when they were closer and closer to reaching their goal. Especially when there is another person sleeping mere feet away. But Dega doesn’t listen, because when does he ever?

He forces himself onto Papi once again, ignoring his quiet warnings and determined to finish what he started. This time, Papi doesn’t resist. Instead, he runs his hands through Degas’ curls, his fingers tangling in the length and pulling the strands against his scalp. It’s forced and rushed and he feels Dega’s throat tremble as he moans into the kiss.

He’s moving backwards; his feet haphazardly leading the way while Dega takes control and guides him. It’s nothing but touch and skin and heavy breaths and Dega leaving welts underneath his uniform. Papi can feel the smaller man shake below the strong grasp he has on his hair, until the back of Papis’ knees hit something soft. And with the force of Dega’s hand on his chest, he feels himself sink down onto an unoccupied mattress.

Degas’ lips leave his. Instead of the unforgiving feeling of emptiness, Papi feels them trail to the side of his face, leaving his burning skin to bask in the momentary coolness. Degas’ lips travel from his cheek, planting a kiss to the underside of his jaw, then down to his neck. Papi inhales sharply, feeling cracked lips brush against his throat, then letting his tongue gently lick over the irritated skin.

Dega’s hand has roamed from his back to the front of his pants, resting somewhere near his inner thigh, and Papillon welcomes the familiar touch, slightly shifting his hips upwards. His head tilts back as he sits, his lips parted and his breathing hitched in the back of his throat. Degas’ hands move to his shirt. Papi feels his trembling fingers begin to work at the buttons sewn onto the front of his uniform.

And he finally opens his eyes. In his position seated on the matress, he has to look up to see Dega. It’s a different angle; one he has never had the privilege of seeing, until now. Dega is looking down at him through the lenses of his glasses, meeting the sight of Papi’s hazed over eyes. His jaw is sharp and he looks taller than usual; stronger than usual. But he was right, Degas’ hands are shaking and he barely has the second button undone before Papi gently grabs his wrist.

“What are we doing?” Papillon asks. His voice is a lot less intimidating than before. He thinks it’s because Dega has the ability to change him from cruel to soft in the matter of a single glance.

“What we should’ve done a long time ago,” Dega responds. He frees his wrist from Papillon’s grasp and continues his task.

Papillon reaches for it once again. This time, his aim is slightly off, so he settles for grabbing the back of Dega’s hand instead. Dega stops, his hand ceases its shaking, and he looks down at Papillon.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Because Dega does know. What are they doing? Whatever this is, whatever is going on between them, it has to be more than mindless kissing and youthful lust. It has to be more than the lingering fear and driving primal force of wanting to live as much as they can in the few possible months they have left.

Papillon knows there has to be more, because he is starting feel more. He’s starting to feel more alive, more willing and ready to leave. He’s starting to feel more awake, more prepared and hopeful. He’s starting to feel more for Dega, too. More than just the overwhelming anxiety of keeping him alive. Papillon doesn’t understand why. He’s never felt like this before; not for the idea of home and not for any other woman he has left in France.

Dega sighs, his hand going lax in Papillon’s grip.

“We’re doing what we need to survive.” Dega moves to close the gap once again.

“We shouldn’t,” Papi whispers this time. “What happens if we do escape? What then?” Papillon knows he should just keep his mouth shut and let it happen, but his mind has already wandered to the possibility of their future.

When he doesn’t get a response, he continues. “What happens when we’re both free men? I want to go home, Dega. You have no home.”

And the second his stinging words curl from his lips, he regrets it. Dega looks wounded, like a child burned by the touch of a hot stove. His features are pulled tight, but the momentary expression of hurt is suddenly replaced by one of poise.

“Then we go separate ways.”

Papillon feels Dega’s breath brush over his lips before he feels their strong presence against his once again. He lets him kiss him. He guides his hand, still wrapped around the other man’s, to the crook of his neck, relishing in the warmth of Dega’s open palm. He was right. Both of them need this. Not for physical survival, but to keep each other far from the brink of insanity. 

Papillon works at his own buttons this time, allowing Dega to breathe heavy into his mouth. Once his chest is exposed, he feels fingers brush against his tattooed skin, then lowering down to the waistband of his pants. Papillon can’t help himself.

“Dega.” His name comes out in a heavy puff of air.

“Louis.” Papillon opens his eyes and gazes up at him. With how close they are to one another, Papi almost has to cross his eyes to see clearly. “I want you to call me Louis.”

And Dega goes back to kissing his neck, then his chest, his lips lingering on the jagged lines of the butterfly inked into his skin. His mouth trails down to his stomach and Papi leans back on his hands, his palms sinking into the soft mattress behind him.

He tilts his gaze down, looking at the mop of unruly curls nestled on top of Dega’s head. He’s on his knees, his hands working the waistband of Papi’s pants, pulling at the fabric until his cock is out. Papi’s gaze catches the silver glint of the hairpin drop to the mattress; yet another concrete inspiration that makes their dream of escape that more real.

His gaze shifts back down, watching as Dega licks the palm of his hand before grabbing the base of his cock, slowly moving it up towards the tip.

“Louis.” Papillon tests out his name as his head lulls backwards. He feels Dega’s hand move a bit quicker. “Louis.” He repeats himself, memorizing every single letter, trying to etch his name into his mind.

Before he gets the chance to say it again, he feels the warmth of Dega’s mouth wrap around him. The beginning of his name catches in the back of throat as he inhales sharply. His tongue is smooth and soft and Papillon reaches his hand up to tangle in Degas’ curls. Dega bobs his head lower, his cock almost touching the back of his throat and Papillon slightly bucks his hips upwards, desperate for the sensation.

“Louis.” Papillon feels Dega’s mouth vibrate as he moans in quiet agreeance, as if he were begging Papi to say it again and again and again. The feeling is almost too much for him to handle. He feels the bottom of his spine begin to tingle, edging closer and closer.

Dega’s mouth begins to move faster. His hand clasps over the back of the one that Papi has gripping at his hair, while the other digs into the soft skin of his hipbones. Papi lifts his head, the weight on his neck heavier than he remembers. He glances down at Louis. He’s met with a flashing sea of green, peering over the thin wire frames of his glasses, his eyes lit with the fire of determination. And that look is all it takes.

“Louis.” The overwhelming sensation of pleasure curls in his stomach, shooting up the muscles in his back as he bucks his hips upwards in one final movement. Dega’s throat tenses as he swallows.

Papi loosens the grip he has on his hair and Dega moves away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He is wearing a smug grin, silently pleased with how short Papi lasted.

As soon as Papi has his pants pulled up and the hairpin is tucked safely back in its position, Dega finds his place on the mattress next to him, their shoulders brushing against one another. The prisoner laying in the bed across the room is somehow still unconscious.

“You’ve done this before?” Papillon asks. Immediately, he knows it was a stupid question, because the answer is quite obvious. He sees Dega nod.

“It’s been a while,” he confesses.

Papi reaches over the small space between them, his hands dipping beneath Dega’s waistband before coming back with a carton of smokes and a lighter. He lights a cigarette and leans back onto the mattress, laying down with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Dega joins him, his head resting heavy on Papillon’s shoulder, his thick hair brushing against the skin underneath his jaw.

“Last time I did something like that was before I didn’t need to worry about money.” And Papillon suddenly remembers he is laying next to one of the wealthiest men in France. Or at least he used to be. “For a long time, I only survived off of the cash I would get.”

Papillon feels his stomach knot. This wasn’t what he expected; not from the man so prestigiously known by all of those still in France and all of those locked away in the prison they live in. Degas’ words leave him shaken and all he can do in that moment is hand the half smoked cigarette over, offering Louis some sign of comfort.

Dega accepts it, breathing in the smoke and closing his eyes in the fleeting moment of peace.

“That was a long time ago.” He makes sure Papi hears that part. “Before I left my home.”

Papi looks down at him in confusion, because how could anyone voluntarily leave their home? How broken must someone be to leave the only place he has ever known to freeze in the coolness of their absence.

“Why did you leave?” He watches as Dega’s throat bobs, swallowing nothing but dry air.

“My father wasn’t supportive of a lot of the things I did,” he begins. His eyes are glued to the ceiling above him. “He always hated my art.” Dega lets out a small laugh. “I think he just hated _me_. He was embarrassed by me.”

And Papillon doesn’t understand how someone could hate something so beautiful.

“And when he figured out that I preferred the company of men instead of women,” Louis continues before taking a small pause. He exhales smoke and it blooms into a cloud above their heads. “It got so bad that I knew if I had stayed, I wouldn’t survive.” He finally tilts his chin back and glances up at Papi.

That’s when he realizes that this is where they differ; that is where their journey comes to an impasse. Because Papillon can only remember his parent’s warm smiles and the smells of burning sugar coming from the bakeries on cobblestone streets. He can only remember the sound of laughter and bright lights and his life so perfectly laid out before him.

He suddenly feels the cool metal of the hairpin burning against the skin of his hips. He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He feels so completely and utterly torn; his limbs pulling him in two different directions. But one option is pulling him harder and it’s his longing for the home he once knew. Papillon finally says what’s on his mind and he despises himself for doing so.

“When the time comes, and I’m forced to choose between staying with you and going home to France,” he begins, unwilling to continue. “I’ll choose home every time.”

Their gaze is still locked onto one another and he is expecting Dega to look somehow even more broken than he already does. But he doesn’t; he simply nods, as if he knew for a while.

Papillon will always choose home, because no matter where he is or where he is forced to go, his longing for the similar smells and sights and tastes of France is the only thing that keeps his spirit from breaking.

“I know,” Louis responds. “And I can’t hate you for it.”

So they simply lay in silence until their cigarette has burned to nothing but ash, burning at the tips of Papis’ fingers. They lay next to one another, reveling in the other’s presence, however temporary it may be. They lay next to one another until they hear the unfamiliar sound of footsteps rising up from the stairs and they are forced to resume their positions; their façade of being nothing but loyal prisoners devoting their work to the crushing ideals of the French government.


End file.
